


The heart of man has long been sore

by IllusiveBirds



Series: Here shall your sweetheart lie [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, It's like a Christmas tree farm, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, World War II, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4214385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IllusiveBirds/pseuds/IllusiveBirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky figures he was born to protect that little boy from Brooklyn who fought every day to survive, to breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The heart of man has long been sore

**Author's Note:**

> This took many months of writing to produce and was born out of a very difficult time for me so it's kinda depressing and it's probably not going to get better. Sorry. 
> 
> Induction notice is largely take from American induction notices from the 1940s.
> 
> Evergreen Cemetery in Brooklyn is an actual place and very beautiful.
> 
> Nona is Italian nickname for grandma and i included this purely because I like the idea of Bucky as Italian.
> 
> Title is from A.E Housman XXXV from a collection of poems called ‘Last Poems’, which i would really recommend, they are amazing.
> 
> Quote is from J. Robert Oppenheimer -known as the father of the atomic bomb- who was a part of the Manhattan project which created the first nuclear weapon in 1945 which led to the end of the Second World War.

 

 

* * *

 

_ The heart of man has long been sore _

_ By  _

_ Illusive Birds _

_“I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.”_

_J. Robert Oppenheimer._

* * *

 

_1943_

 

The cigarette burns hot and fast in his fingers and he goes through it quicker than he’d like. It’s cheap; from a pack Dum Dum had won in a card game, but it’s the best thing he’s tasted since his mother’s Sunday dinners. He breathes out to his right, a habit from trying to keep the smoke away from Steve, and drops the butt, watching as the muddy earth swallows it from sight.

“How long do you think it’ll be ‘til we move on?” Dum Dum says from beside him, voice a whisper in the dark forest where they made camp only a few hours beforehand, when daylight still bathed the trees above in heavenly light. It had been a sight for sore eyes when they’d arrived, fresh off the battlefield, grim faced, their weapons heavy on weary shoulders.

Bucky shrugs, shoulders scraping against the cool bark of the tree he rested against, back tense, eyes searching the inky darkness for any sign of life.

“Won’t know anything ‘til morning, you should rest, I don’t mind staying up by myself.” He says shifting slightly, feeling his muscles twinge at the movement.All day they’d been walking, on the lookout for the army base that was supposedly in sight, and by the time they could see the shadowed outline of the rows of tents it had been nearing dusk.

Dum Dum shook his head, bowler hat clutched in thick, calloused, dirty fingers, twisting and turning between them. “Shouldn’t take watch alone Barnes. Not safe.” He replied, gaze forward, brow furrowed.

 _No_ Bucky thought, _not safe at all_. He’d watched many a good man fall mercy to the silence that was few and far between on the battlefield. Too much thinking could kill a man, his dad always said, nothing good comes from it. Bucky, knew that all too well.

“Reckon by this time tomorrow, we’ll have our feet up by a fire eating everything _but_ beans.” Dum Dum sighed; breathe puffing out in a gust of heat.

Bucky cracked a smirk at that. “Nothing wrong with a good bit of beans,” He nudged his shoulder into Dum Dum’s.

“If I could, I would happily never see a single bean in my life.”

“ _No_ , don’t tell me you wouldn’t miss the extra warmth at night?” Bucky laughed, shifting to catch the grimace on the other soldiers face. 

“I would rather eat Alice’s beef stew.” He said, smiling.

They grow quiet again, listening to an owl hooting in the distance.

“Two months we’ve been gone and I’ve not written her a single word.” He says face turned up to the sky.

“It’s like every time I try, I just write the same crap that I’ve spurted before.” He puts on a mock accent of his own curving vowels. “ _Hey, doll. Everything’s fine where I am. Europe is cold. Keep well, your Dum Dum._ It’s all a bunch of shit.” He spits out the last word and they seem to hang in the frigid air between them, leaving a bitter taste in Bucky’s mouth. When Bucky looks over he’s still looking at the sky, face haggard and drawn.

Night brings out the worst in them all. It spreads out their worst nightmares in front of them as though it is a dark canvas ready to be drawn and coloured into existence. The daylight casts a glow, gives them something to focus on, but the dark drags them into an abyss of misery by which they all get trapped.

This isn’t the first nor shall it be the last time he will hear another man’s deepest thoughts, but it hits him harder now that it is Dum Dum spilling his soul; the man who gave Bucky his first pen knife and showed him how to scratch the swastika out of its hilt; who radiated life and energy; who now sits with the weight of war on his shoulders.

It feeds the ever growing, burning hatred that lies deep in his stomach; the idea that war is extinguishing the life out of every good man in America makes his mouth turn sour.

He doesn’t say anything. They’d all just be empty words anyway. How can you comfort someone, when what they say is the truth?

Experience tells him that though the men in his infantry may say a lot, they don’t often want anything in return. He gets it; sometimes just getting it out is better than some shitty piece of advice he could give any day.

After a few moments he feels Dum Dum shift beside. “We should reach base by dusk.” He confidently states.

Bucky nods his head mutely.

They are mere days away from the biggest firefight they have ever seen, but he’s not scared. There is only one thing he is afraid of, one man, and he’s not much of a man anyway.

He made his peace with death a long time ago, as he stared at the neat, printed conscription notice; when he crumpled it in his fist and lied to his family - to Steve.

Death is inevitable and Bucky shall greet him with the sins he has committed, no shame. Yes, death is inevitable and Bucky shall see him soon.

 

_1935_

 

It’s an unbearably hot day in July when Bucky realises.

Summer in Brooklyn is like a sweltering hot pot of every man, women and child, each attempting to keep cool and all to no avail.

Bucky and Steve are no exception. They are among the thousands that line the sandy beaches of Coney Island and splash each other in the sea in an attempt to cool down.

The sun is setting when they trudge back up the beach, noses and shoulders marked red after spending all day in the glare of the summer sun. Bucky’s parents stand on the broad walk, little Becca Barnes, only six years old, clings on to her father’s shoulders and blinks drowsily at her brother as he make his way towards them. Winifred Barnes eyes their peeling skin and Bucky sheepishly smiles at her.

“You boys.” She sighs. “What are we going to do with you?” His smile turns cheeky. Beside him Steve lowers his head, face flushing even brighter.

It was a familiar image, one of which Winifred had seen many times in their friendship. Bucky grinning widely while little Steve Rogers hung his head, shame faced and seemingly innocent.  In reality it had always been the other way around; though he may look it, Steve Rogers is no angel. She cannot count the amount of times she’s found them in the kitchen, battered and bleeding after fighting off yet another injustice with tiny fists and big hearts.

They walk back to the metro, footsteps heavy. Bucky and Steve stride ahead, shoulders brushing with every step and heads bowed deep in conversation. It isn’t until they’re halfway home, Steve drooling on his shoulder, that he looks down and everything just… clicks. His whole world doesn’t come crashing down; it stays stationary because in a way he’s always known.

Ever since he was twelve years old when he had brought Steve every single comic book he owned, to read whilst in bed with his second bout of influenza that year, he’d known that what he felt wasn’t normal but didn’t understand why.

It’s not love, no, but it’s something like it.

But now… now he’s older, he’s seen the way the world works and knows that these feelings are _wrong_. The sharp pang in his chest every time Steve smiles at him will only drag him to the depths of hell if he acts upon it; that every time Steve _looks_ at him and his heart makes a flying leap into his throat, he is doomed.

It’s not love, it never could be, but he thinks he wouldn’t mind if it was, someday. 

That night as he lies awake and thinks about the weight of Steve’s head on his shoulder. the feel of his chest shakily rising and falling as his lungs tried to breath, there is an ache in his throat that won’t go away because _how can something so evil, be so good?_

He remembers when he was eight, watching as they dragged Bobby Heaney into the back of a police van, even as his parents tried to shield his eyes; watched the wide-eyed terrified look on his face that he’d soon see on his own in years to come.

 When he asked the priest why people sinned, he was met with a weary gaze of someone who had been asked too much and given too little.

_“Sin was created by God to test our faith. If sinning was not pleasurable then no one would even think about committing an act of this kind. But because we have these temptations we must remain vigilant and follow down the path of God and this is a conscious decision James, one which I trust you will always make.”_

Father Geoffrey had eyed him then, and he’d nodded his head wildly before running out of the church in a flurry of white choir robes.

The next day he meets a tiny slip of a boy and it seems as though God is laughing at him; he had created the one thing that Bucky would gladly be dragged to hell for.

He knew what happened to men who… associated with that way of life, he knew what they were like and there were nights where he would lay in bed and feel as though his chest was caving in. He’d vow to be different, be _better_ and when the sun rose he almost believed it. But then he’d see Steve - golden and waiflike, standing at the corner of his road, back pack heaved onto fragile shoulders – and he gets pulled back into orbit.

When he is older these are the days where he has to fight back the urge to do _something_ ; to lean in, to kiss, to bite, to _touch_ him. He craves to hear the little gasps and shaking limbs of Steve at his most vulnerable. It fills him up like hot lava pooling in his abdomen and he spends most evenings with his hand down his pants trying to chase away the insistent urge.

It is wrong, but he wishes it didn’t have to be.

When he was younger he used to lie awake, confused, because Steve was good. Steve was the best person he has ever met and likely ever will. He fights for what is right, never says a bad word about someone and only wants to help.

How can feeling this way about Steve be so wrong?

But the world works in funny ways and Bucky is quick to learn this.

After Steve’s mom dies and they move in together it gets easier to pretend. He dances with pretty girls and even takes some of them out for dates, kisses them like in the pictures and for a while it gets easier. And then Steve nearly dies and he is right back where he started.

It’s pneumonia that almost does it. For over a week Steve is weak, pale, and sweaty; his fever worryingly high and he can’t seem to breathe properly. They are running out of money for medicine and Bucky’s parents can’t afford to lend them anymore and Bucky is scared, _terrified,_ because Steve is _dying_ and there is nothing he can do. He hasn’t been to work for three days now, taking care of Steve and if he doesn’t go back soon he’ll lose his job but he has to make sure Steve is ok. He can’t just leave him like this.

When his ma’ comes around, she stares down at Steve’s limp form and solemnly offers to fetch the vicar. It is not the first time Bucky had heard this but he still almost breaks a chair when she says it.  

And then miraculously, that night Steve’s fever breaks and his cheeks became flushed with healthy colour and Bucky damn near starts crying from where he sits besides his bed, clinging on to his hand for dear life.

Steve was a fighter, no doubt about that and Bucky had fallen for him: hook, line and sinker.

_1941_

 

When the induction letter arrives he has to fight back the bile rising in his throat. Steve’s at an art class, so Bucky is alone when he rushes up to their apartment and slams the door shut. He’s breathing heavily and is dusty from a day at the docks, but his blood runs cold in his veins. The paper is damp in his fist where he grips it tightly and he has to lean his head back against the door to stop another wave of nausea from crawling into his throat.

_The President of the United States,_

_To                Mr. James Buchanan Barnes_

_GREETING:_

_You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed forces of the United States…_

The words blur and merge together when he looks back down at the paper but he recognises an induction letter when he sees one. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, the draft, the war… _him._

Everything was supposed to be normal. He’d find a beautiful dame with a sharp wit and marry young, settle down in a house next to Steve and his wife and have children who’d play together and when he died he would be buried alongside his family, in that little plot of land in Evergreen and he would be _normal._

But Bucky’s not normal and life isn’t fair. Instead he will die in a foreign land far away from the one person who he never wants to leave; can never leave. His chest tightens painfully and he wonders if this is how Steve feels when his lungs stop being lungs for a while.

Isn't that the bitch of it; he can’t leave Steve.

Who would wake him up in the night when his breathes become mere wheezes of air attempting to keep him alive? Who would rescue him from those back alleys every week? Who would keep him cool as he battled with a fever?

(Who would care for him as Bucky does?)

The answer is no one, of course. His parents have their own lives to worry about, though they won’t hesitate to invite Steve round for dinner. Becca is too young, aged fourteen and cares more about school and clothes to worry about her older brother’s best friend.  

Steve will be alone and there is nothing Bucky can do.

-

A week later when Steve arrives home it is to the smell of soup simmering on their tiny stove and Bucky humming along to Sinatra on the radio as though nothing has happened. The letter is tucked into his sock draw, and has been since he’d first received it, hidden away from sight in an attempt to forget. He can’t of course but just for this one evening Bucky wants everything to be normal. Next month he leaves for basic and he has to tell Steve soon otherwise he won’t have time to get things ready.

“Hey Steve-o, dinner be ready in a couple minutes.” He says, staring at the bubbling, watery concoction in front of him.

“What’ll it be tonight then Buck?” Steve replies, taking off his coat and washing his hands in the sink, scrubbing charcoal of the tips of his long fingers.

“The finest of course,” He responds, turning to give Steve a cocky smile. “We have boiled potatoes and cabbage in a stock of the purest water _known_ to man.”

Steve a noise of acknowledgement and sits high on the chair at the square of wood they call a dining table, smirking

“Old Ms McCaw from opposite asked me when I was walking in if I needed help up the stairs.” Steve says, lips twitching.

“And what’d you tell her?” Bucky asked a half-smile on his face as he turned the gas off and began to dish the soup into to bowls beside the cooker.

“No, that it’s unlikely that I would; I’m _colour_ blind.”

Bucky barks out a laugh at that and puts the bowls on the table, sitting opposite Steve. “What’d she say?”

“Thanks,” Steve says smiling at him before reaching out to dip his spoon into the broth. “She patted me on the shoulder and told me I have an unfortunate affliction that limits my true potential but does not distinguish my vibrant personality. She still doesn’t seem to understand that I _can_ actually see.” Steve shakes his head in amusement.

“She’s a witch I’m telling you; got the black cat and everything.” Bucky slurps at his soup and grimaces when it burns his tongue.

“The warts too,” Steve mumbles head, dipped as he blows gently onto the soup trying to cool it down, before taking a sip.

Bucky laughs again and then their silent, quietly eating and listening to the colourful voice on the radio advertising war bonds.

“Johnny Paxton’s been drafted.” Steve says grip tight on his spoon, jaw clenched and eyes lowered. “And apparently Alice Munroe’s fiancé’s just finished basic, ready to ship off in a week.”

Bucky stiffens minutely, hums in response and shoves another spoonful into his mouth, although his stomachs tightened uncomfortably and eating is suddenly the last thing he wants to do.

“Kinda odd how you’ve not got a notice.” Steve says voice heightening a little as he tries to remain nonchalant.

“Yeah, well.” He replies praying that Steve doesn’t know, he can’t know. From opposite him Steve sighs.

“Bucky.” He says.

He definitely knows.

“Yeah?”

He’s so screwed.

“You want to tell me anything?”

Oh shit.

He shakes his head and takes another sip of soup, any previous confidence he had when deciding to tell Steve has vanished and he shrinks inwards, awkward and unwilling to open his mouth.

“Well, i found this the other day.” And there it is. The rumpled, cream piece of paper with blocked capitals, sitting almost smugly on the table.

 He feels sick.

Rolling his lips together, he takes a deep breath and looks up to the pale, clenched face of his best friend.

“Look, Steve, I was gonna tell you-”

“Were you though? Were you?” Steve explodes suddenly, hand slamming onto the table and it shakes on rickety legs.

Steve is not often angry, he is often upset and frequently disappointed, however he very rarely gets angry. Steve has a good temper, yes, but Bucky knows too well that good temper does not always mean never getting angry.

“You’ve had this for a week, Buck and I’ve not heard a _single_ word about it. Did you not think I deserve to know?”

“Of course you do but-” Bucky attempts to speak, but Steve quickly interjects, face flushed, eyes blazing with hurt and anger.

“Then why? Why didn’t you tell me? Did you not want to hurt my feelings or something? Because I hate to tell you Buck but I’m a big guy, I can take a hit.” He’s standing up now, fingers gripping the table hard.

“No! Of course that’s not it, Steve don’t be ridiculous.” He almost shouts feeling anger and guilt surging into a black pit in his stomach.

“Then why Bucky, because I’m having a real hard time _trying_ to figure out why my _best_ friend didn’t want to tell me they were going off to _war_ in a couple months!” His voice rises and he stands in front of Bucky, hand placed firmly on his chest attempting to keep his breathing smooth.

“Because…” Bucky starts, but the words clog in his throat and Steve’s staring at him, eyebrows raised expectantly and he blurts out, “BECAUSE I DIDN’T WANT TO.”

Steve steps back, visibly shocked at Bucky’s outburst.

“I’m the one going off to war, Steve so forgive me if I wanted time to… to think.” He says aggressively, before pushing his chair back with a screech and stalking out of the kitchen into their cupboard of a bedroom and thumps onto his back on the bed.

Bucky’s hurt beats wildly in his chest as he scrubs his face wearily with his hands willing the sharp knot in his throat to disappear. After a moment he hears Steve sit down on to the bed.

“I’m sorry.” Steve whispers. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

“No.” Bucky sits up, and laces his hands loosely over his bent knees. “I should have told you it’s just… I’m not like you Steve.” His voice cracks slightly and he stares at the fraying blanket beneath him.

“I’m not brave. I don’t wanna fight.” I don’t want to die, he almost says, but stops short. Steve’s let out a small sound and puts a pale shaking had onto his knee.

“Oh, Buck, you’re braver than any guy I know.” He says. Bucky chokes out a laugh and rubs vigorously at his eyes.

“Yeah.”  His voice is gruff and quiet, unbelieving. “Not brave enough to enlist though.”

And isn’t that the bitch of it, that Steve who went to the enlistment centre as soon as the news of war was announced; who fought against the few who dared say anything against those who fought and those who died; who spent angry nights vocalizing his disgust for Hitler and his dictatorship. Bucky who made meaningless excuses; Steve was brave unlike Bucky and he couldn’t even go to war.

Steve was still staring at him, blue eyes wide and sad and Bucky’s heart clenched uncomfortably in his chest. 

“You can’t be brave if you’re not afraid Bucky.” He says voice tiny. He shrugs, “or at least that’s what my momma used to say.”

“And wasn’t she a fearsome thing to see.” Bucky says, grasping onto the back of Steve’s neck and bringing him to his side.

Steve laughs wetly and Bucky’s stomach twists, as it does every time Steve brings up his mom. It had been two years since she’d gone and he still found her hard to talk about, when he did he’d get quiet and it took everything Bucky had not to wrap his arms around him tight.

“It’s gonna be okay Buck.” Steve says, head bowed hands clasped as though in prayer. “You’ll see.”

“I know.” He says quietly although his heart has sunken in his chest. “I know it will.”

 

_1943_

 

He remembers pain.

Fire coursing through his veins, burning under his skin and he screams.

Some days he passes out before they can ask questions. When they do he answers only with his _name, rank, and serial number_ until it becomes almost unrecognisable: a series of sounds coming out of his mouth, a monotonous cycle of _name rank serial number_.

He remembers lying on the cold slap of metal, strapped down like a feral animal as they poke and prod, cut and stuck him with needles.

Things are blurry and unfocused. At one point he sees Steve, small and fragile in the corner saying his name and he cries out for him to leave, to get out and save himself but then they inject him with something else which makes his muscles burn and shake. When he awakes, mumbling, he hears Steve say his name again and knows it is just another hallucination.

Until it’s not.

When Schmidt _removes his_ _face_ he thinks he must be hallucinating again. Only his mind could think up such horrors but he feels Steve tense up beside him and realises that this right here is some twisted sort of reality.

“You don’t have one of those do you?”

-

There had been very little time for a reunion after sprinting from the burning building and re-joining with the other prisoners; Steve had been busy organising the wounded and Bucky had sat and watched silently beside Dum Dum, chain smoking a pack of cigarettes commandered off one of the Hydra goons.

Most of the three day walk had been spent asleep in the back of a truck with the other wounded, bones heavy with exhaustion. When he did walk, he was beside Steve, clutching tightly onto a gun, attempting to ignore the niggling worry in the back of his head because _his bruises were already disappearing and his cuts were healing too quickly_.

Steve had seemed to notice his tension and kept quiet, looking worriedly at him every so often, but he had been kept busy enough during rest periods that he was unable to offer more than a few words of comfort.

Now, back at camp, Bucky’s entire body is thrumming with energy:  as though electricity is pounding through his veins at high speed and when Steve ushers him into his private tent, he stands shaking beside the small cot and clenches his hands into tight fists.

Steve laughs nervously, hand rubbing against the back of his neck. “Being the star of the show has its perks apparently.”

Bucky nods and looks around him, at the neatly made bed, unpacked trunk, the sketch book chucked haphazardly onto the top of its closed lid. His foot beats out a fast rhythm against the floor and Steve glances worriedly down towards the flurry of movement.

“Buck, do you want to lie-?”

“Didn’t I take all the stupid with me?” Bucky bursts out suddenly, interrupting Steve before he can finish his sentence.

He laughs almost hysterically and quickly says, “‘cos as soon as I buggered off you went and volunteered for a science experimentand became ‘Captain America’ selling war bonds to the American public.” His arms are swinging wildly as he talks and Steve takes a step back, bewildered.

“I – what?” He asks after a second.

Bucky feels hot; his heart beating fast in his ears and when he swallows his throat is dry.

“I had to do something Buck.” Steve says defensive even as he tries to be gentle as though he can sense how Bucky’s feeling.

Panicked, flighty: like a bird in a trap.

 “Are you sure you don’t want to lie down?” He steps forward but Bucky moves away quickly wringing his hands together.

“It’s just I _told_ you to not do anything, I told you to stay Steve. War isn’t- It’s not right for you.” Bucky struggles out but he’s finding it difficult to breathe now, breathes coming in short, shallow gasps.

“You shouldn’t have- it’s not-” He tries again,  but then Steve’s standing in front of him and his arms are wrapping around his shoulders and it’s all too much because _he used to be smaller, he used so much smaller_.

He makes a small sound and then his face is buried in Steve’s shoulder and he’s gasping in big ugly breathes of air and Steve’s stroking his back like his mum used to when he was sick and it’s all too much.

_“It’s all right Buck. You’re safe now. You’re okay, we’re okay"._

-

When they reach London a few days later they are officially de-briefed. Bucky spends his time being scrutinised by Colonel Philips and efficiently questioned by Agent Carter and when he is finally allowed to leave he is sweaty and exhausted.

Steve is waiting outside the room for him with Dum Dum and a few others he knows well: Gabe, Falsworth and Dernier stand beside them all grinning wickedly and he immediately knows what’s going to happen.

“We’re going to a pub in town that I know of.” Falsworth says smirking. “Cap’s getting the first round…” The question remains unspoken and its answer’s obvious.

“Well if you insist.” He laughs and grins widely at their cheers. Dum Dum slaps him on the back and ruffles his hair as they walk off, rowdy and loud in the darkening streets.

Steve walks almost stiffly beside him, hands in his pockets. His uniform is neatly pressed and shiny, obviously brand new and every so often he smooth’s down the front of his lapels and tugs at his collar unused to the rough texture against his neck.

It becomes clear in the exchange with Miss Carter - or Peggy as she asked him to call her – that Steve no longer needed his help. Steve is no longer the fragile one, unnoticed by the dames, his life hanging by a thread.

Steve looks at Peggy as though she is his sun and it hurts.

He can’t help but feel as though he’s been cast aside but then he reconsiders; Steve never needed his help in the first place really.

When Bucky leans over to him in the stuffy pub, he is drunk enough to only be half joking when he asks about the costume, in a poor attempt to dispel the uncomfortable feeling in his chest.

It only half works.

 

_1944_

 

Agent Margaret Carter was certainly a fearsome thing to behold. She accompanied the Howling Commandoes on more complicated missions where skill more than brute force was needed and efficiently managed to drink Dum Dum under the table, whilst retaining her usual elegance and grace.

She and Steve were perfect together both in battle and when strategizing together. They would stand over mission plans, heads antithesis’s of each other; one light, one dark, and they smile at each other like… like they are each other’s sun: perfectly content to orbit around the other for all of time.

Bucky’s not jealous. He _isn’t._

Peggy Carter is very much deserving of Steve and Bucky cannot find a reason to hate her. She is kind but blunt with a sharp wit and the ability to tell Steve to take his head _out_ of his ass and listen. Not to mention she has a mean right hook and can almost match Bucky’s sniper skills.

 (Even before being captured by Zola, Bucky was the best shot in the army – after Zola, well; he doesn’t like to think about that too much).

One night the Howling Commandoes are sitting around a small fire in the middle of a forest in Germany after a mission they were not actually allowed to have undertaken. Peggy, to Steve’s contained enthusiasm, had been needed to infiltrate this particular HYDRA base. They are sooty and tired from an ‘accidental’ explosion and Bucky can feel his blisters getting blisters from the fifty mile walk they had to take to get away from the remains of the base.

Now, as he sits beside Morita listening to Dernier and Dum Dum arguing about some shit he doesn’t have the strength to think about, he stares across the flickering flames at Peggy and Steve. They sit side by side, knees touching, talking quietly and appear indifferent to the conversation beside them.

Steve will marry her; after the war, after everything, he will get down on one knee and propose to her and she will say yes. They will buy a house, with a white picket fence, and get a dog and have two perfect children and grow old together, and Bucky won’t be upset. Steve will be happy and for that Bucky can never be upset.

The thing is, when he was sixteen and only just out of High School, his Nona became very ill and every Tuesday afternoon Bucky would visit her in hospital and read to her. She had inherited books by scholars like Plato and Aristotle from her late husband and every week Bucky would read to her, a chapter or two from one of these books up until her death three months later.

He doesn’t remember much from them - it seems almost a lifetime ago since he was that young boy - but there was one he remembers clearly. It was his Nona’s favourite and she made him read it to her countless of times.

 It said that when humans were first created, they had four arms and legs, androgynous and were an almighty species. The Gods obviously didn’t like this and so, tore them apart.  Separated into man and woman they were unhappy and seeked to find their missing other half, once they did find them they would unite, and live the rest of their lives in perfect harmony and bliss.

Bucky secretly believed it was all a bunch of bullshit but his Nona loved it and so he had played along. Now though, looking at Steve and Peggy, it wouldn’t surprise him if it were true.

If once Peggy and Steve had been one, forcefully separated and forced to grow up alone and in the horror of war, when they both needed each other more than they knew, they had once again been united.

It would make sense.

But… where does that leave him?

Steve is home for him, is the one good thing in this dreaded waste land and he doesn’t want to lose him, can’t lose him; the one thing keeping him grounded and sane, reminding him of who he was and who he should be. Bucky figures he was born to protect that little boy from Brooklyn who fought every day to survive, to _breathe._  

But now he doesn’t need his help, he has Peggy and a super soldier serum keeping him alive. He doesn’t need his protection, not like he used to.

Part of Bucky hopes he will die in this war. The things he’s seen, all that he has done: He has looked at men through the scope of his rifle, seen the cuts they bore from shaving that morning, the speck of grey in their hair or the dirt in their eyebrow. He has seen the blood from the bullet he gave them.

 Seen their lives shatter and break.

 He has felt a dying man’s heartbeat under his fingertips and looked in their eyes as they drew their last breath.

On the battlefield he has met with death himself, shared quiet moments in the muddy fields of war. Death is his friend and he is not afraid of him.

(He is afraid of living).

Heaven is far out of reach for Bucky, if God even exists, he knows he will be turned away at the pearly gates for the sins he has committed and he will not fight, not say a word because it is all true. And the hell that awaits him will be heaven in comparison to the hell he has seen before him, to the fire and burning gyres he felt spiralling underneath his skin.

Hell is a place on earth that he never truly left behind, and every night he dreams, a steel table at his back and shackles on his wrists and ankles. A man in glasses, voice speaking in lilting German and he screams.

The only thing he asks for is that his last gasp of air, the last reminder that he is alive, will come quick. He has seen men die slowly and painfully in no-man’s land and he wants none of that. A painless death is all he can ask for now.

A couple of weeks ago in Berlin Bucky had thought it was the end. The mission had been simple: destroy the base, no infiltration needed and it was all going smoothly. Bucky was up high, hidden in a tree overlooking the small valley the base was hidden in, shooting down any goons who got close to the team. He was focused, so focused that he hadn’t noticed someone creeping up behind him until they had lifted up their gun, lining up for a kill shot.

It was over quick; Bucky had twisted round at the audible crunch of leaves beneath him and twisted to the right in an attempt to dodge the oncoming bullet, shooting one of his own down at the goon beneath him, killing him dead.

It wasn’t until he rested back against the tree, breathing heavy, that he noticed the sharp pain in his left shoulder. Confused he touched it and…

…when he drew his hand back …it was slick with bright, crimson blood.

Honestly, he did not expect that. He also did not expect to fall out of the tree either but sometimes life has a fun way of surprising you like that.

 (He falls as he attempts to climb down the tree, rifle packed up and over his right shoulder and he would have been fine but his left arm didn’t seem to be cooperating and things were getting a little fuzzy around the edges.) 

The world was spinning slightly where he lay, cheek pressed against the dry, crispy leaves on the ground. As it focused he looked down at his shoulder and drew in a sharp breath.

“Jesus.” He whispered. He wasn’t gonna lie. It looked bad. The blue of his coat was almost black with the amount of blood pouring from his wound and he pressed his right hand against the hole in the fabric.

_You apply pressure to a wound don’t you?_

He thinks he can remember Morita saying something about that but his head hurts. He must have hit it on the ground when he fell but he isn’t sure.

He thinks he should get up, go towards their designated meeting point.

_Where was that again?_

Maybe he should just wait here until they find him.

They always do.

Steve will come. He’ll find him.

He’ll just wait here.

Maybe rest his eyes against the light.

Just for… a while.

-

He wakes up when he feels footsteps shaking the ground as someone rushes towards him. Only then does he hear someone shouting.

“BUCKY?! Bucky… oh thank god.”

There are hands on him moving him upright, touching his face, saying his name in a familiar voice (“Steve?”) and jolting his shoulder harshly. He groans when they do so, face screwing up.

“Oh jeez.” The person touching him says, breath blowing onto his face and they sound scared. He doesn’t like that, doesn’t want them to be scared, because it’s Steve.

“S’alright Stevie, ‘m fine.” He mumbles reassuringly but his head is resting on Steve’s shoulder and his shoulder really hurts and he just wants to go back to sleep.

Steve huffs annoyed. “You got a bullet in your shoulder pal. You’re not fine.” He says probing at his shoulder.

Bucky says nothing, trying to be quiet as white hot pain shoots through his shoulder, but is distracted by another couple of footsteps fast approaching.

“The others are on look out.” He hears Morita say. “What we lookin’ at cap?”

“Bullet in the shoulder, can’t see an exit wound.” 

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Possible concussion as well, there’s a bruise on his head.”

“Well, let’s focus on what we can handle.” Bucky feels Morita kneel beside him, opening his jacket, gentle fingers touch his shoulder.

He doesn’t remember much after that.

They were in the middle of German territory, base camp too far away for the bullet to stay in his collarbone. If they had left it any longer he would have bled out.

He remembers Falsworth holding him down. The white hot pain in his shoulder reminded him of Zola’s lab and he fought to say conscious and the only thing holding him still was Steve holding his head in his hands as he whispered reassurances to him.

Now, looking back he thinks he was praying he thinks he was praying.

He remembers hoping that it would be the end, that the blood loss would be too severe and he would die in a foreign field, fighting for something better. He doesn’t obviously and it is not the first time he thinks God likes to piss all over his prayers.

 

_1924_

 

Bucky is eight years old when he first meets Steve.

He is sitting on the field during playtime, alone and bored, watching as the other boys play football. He wishes he could join in but ma says he isn’t allowed to run around or nothing until his arm is healed. It’s not fair he broke his arm playing cops and robbers and now he has to sit alone whilst everyone else has fun.

Bucky sighs and flops down on his back. Summer is fast approaching and he is going to have to spend it _bored._ He looks around him for something interesting and his face brightens when he notices a little boy sitting on the row of benches, head bowed over some paper. He too is alone and Bucky smiles brightly and standing up, begins to walk over to the boy.

“Watcha’ doing?” He asks once he is standing almost directly in front of the boy, rocking back and forward on the balls of his feet and stares down at him.

The boy looks up surprised at someone speaking to him and narrows his eyes warily.

Up close he can see that the boy is much smaller than he thought and his skin is very pale in the bright sun. He appears to be drawing something but Bucky’s ma taught him manners and he knows not to just go creeping on people.

 “I’m drawing.” He says, chin jutting out, daring Bucky to say something.

Bucky’s face visibly brightens in interest, “Can I see? My uncle used to draw all the time and he showed me all the ones he was most proud of and they were _so_ cool.” He says with all the admiration an eight year old can have for his ‘cool’ uncle

The boy’s face flushes slightly and he jauntily nods his head, moving up the bench so an almost vibrating Bucky can sit next to him. Bucky thumps down beside him and immediately begins to swing his feet, bending over so he can see the paper in front of him.

“I’m Bucky by the way, Bucky Barnes.”  He says and smiles widely at the blonde boy, showing off the gap between his teeth where his two front teeth used to be.

“Steve Rogers.” Comes the response along with a shy, half smile.

“Wow, you’re really good.” Bucky says. The drawing in front of him is indeed good - for six year old using crayons anyway. It is an image of the field before them and Bucky stares down at it eyes wide.

“Thanks.” Steve says but he still looks at Bucky nervously.

Often some of the older boys will come over to where he spends his break times alone, and when they do, it usually ends in bruises and scraped knees and Steve is waiting for the inevitable moment where he will have to put his fists up and fight.

However, Bucky is clearly not like the others. He spends the rest of break beside Steve, telling him about how he broke his arm, the new comic book he was reading and his uncle who works down at the docks. Steve listens almost reverently and tells him about his ma and the old lady who lives across the road from him.

They are friends immediately

It is strange, Bucky thinks - two months later as he shares an orange with Steve as they sit out on his porch step - it is strange to have a best friend… he thinks he might like it.

-

Bucky Barnes is a well-liked, intelligent boy who excels in his subjects and is capable of taking control when needed. He has friends, many friends, but the one he sits with at lunch, shares comic books with and lets sleepover at his house, is a boy two years below him - with bad lungs and a poor immune system - who is not expected to reach his teens let alone his twenties.

But Bucky does not care that Steve cannot kick a football around properly or play baseball with the rest of them, they have fun without the need for sports. It is for that reason that Bucky Barnes becomes almost inseparable with little Steve Rogers.

By the time Steve is ten and Bucky twelve, it is rare to see them apart; they come as a pair: Barnes and Rogers; Steve and Bucky.

They almost lose each other for the first time a few years after they first meet. Scarlet Fever rips through Steve’s tiny frame, and Bucky sits terrified outside his house. Steve’s been sick before but never like this. Not where death is as close to the door as the priest. He spends most of the time in a sleep-deprived state and after three days, he gets sent home from school after falling asleep in math class.

For some reason he decides to walk past the church on his way home and as he’s walking past the dark stone building he stops. More Sundays than he can count have been spent inside the dark, cavernous rooms of this place but he has never once visited any other time. Today is different; desperation as it does too many, drives him towards the heavy wooden doors.  

He’s seen people pray before but he still kneels unsteadily at a pew and looks up to roof of the church.

Bucky’s not good with words, not like his dad, but he figures keeping it simple can’t hurt his chances.

_(Please, please don’t take him. Please. He deserves to live)._

Even aged twelve years old he knows that Steve is special; is more than just the names he is called. He knows Steve deserves more than the hand he has been dealt and he prays because he cannot do anything else. He cannot make Steve better and he prays to the one person who he believes _can_.

That night, just as Sarah is about to send for the Priest, Steve’s fever breaks. He is left with a poor immune system and he can’t hear things very well sometimes but _he is alive._

Bucky learns from a young age that life is never always fair, but sometimes faith is rewarded.

)It is not the only time Bucky finds himself, kneeling before Christ, praying for Steve to survive and sometimes it feels as though heaven just can’t seem to wait for Steve to come home. It wouldn’t surprise him).

-

Steve fights the good fight and Bucky finds himself joining in, if only to make sure Steve doesn’t kill himself in the process.

The first time it happens they have only been friends for about a year. Due to being in a lower grade than Bucky, Steve has lunch just before him and they usually meet up at the start of Bucky’s lunch and the middle of Steve’s beside the water fountain in the playground.

This lunchtime however, when Bucky rushes outside, Steve is not there. He stops dead, frowns and looks around for a familiar blonde head of hair and he feels something heavy settle into his stomach when he can’t see him. He knows Steve gets teased, he’s the smallest kid in his grade, but since he’s been hanging around with Bucky he _said_ it had gotten better, he _promised_ Bucky it was all fine.

It’s not all fine because only seconds later Bucky hears shouting from behind the trees at the edge of the playground and Bucky can hear Steve from over where he is standing and he groans in frustration.

“I can do this all day.” Steve says.

Bucky rolls his eyes and hurries over to the trees. As he goes round them he sees Connor Mathers and his buddies standing around Steve who stands as tall as he can with his fists held up in front of his face. Blood is dropping steadily from his nose.

“What’s going on?” Bucky says casually leaning against a tree, arms crossed.

Connors cheeks flush but he turn to look at Bucky and attempts to make himself look bigger - not difficult seeing as he was rather large anyway - Bucky thinks he resembles a beached whale most days anyway.

 “Nothing, just teaching Rogers a lesson.”

Bucky shakes his head thoughtfully like he’s seen his dad do when talking to the people he works with. “You see, I’m finding that hard to believe.”

He gestures to Steve who has had to cup his hands underneath his nose to stem the flow of blood.

Connor and his friends shuffle awkwardly and Connor jerks his head, “Let’s go, wasn’t fun anyway.” He mumbles as they leave and Bucky rolls his arms and goes towards Steve.

“I hab ‘em on the ropes.” Steve says nasally and Bucky puts an arm around his shoulder handing him a handkerchief.

“I know you did.” He responds and begins to steer him towards the First Aid room.

It is the first time Bucky saved Steve from a fight and is definitely not the last. Before the war, when Steve barely reached his shoulder, Bucky had to rescue Steve from countless fights.

Unsurprisingly in the battlefield this hasn’t changed.

 

_1945_

 

Bucky is the best damn shot in the army and he’s _proud_ of it. Some sick twisted part of him revels when a shot connects with its target with a sickening crack; feels satisfied when the shot lines up perfectly.  Bucky feels some demented pleasure from shooting straight and true, hearing the shot of the gun reverberating around him.

When he was younger he was good at a lot of things, baseball, maths, science.

(Turns out killings just another thing to add to the list).

The army spotted his so called ‘talent’ a few weeks into basics and he was sent on a fast track towards becoming a Sergeant. He tells his family and they are so proud, so proud of their boy, off to save America (he feels sick at that).

His dad, however, sits in a corner of the living room, brows turned down and Bucky doesn’t understand why his dad isn’t as happy as his ma, his sister. It’s not until he’s in the midst of his first firefight - where the ground is exploding around him and the men in is unit are disappearing in flashes of burning heat - when Bucky finally thinks he gets it. Why so many of the veterans from the First War look at him with pity and sadness, why his father clutches his shoulders tight and seems to almost not let him go.

 The thing is war strips you of your humanity.

Killing doesn’t just affect the people’s lives you take or their families, killing someone else destroys a little bit of what makes you human. And that is sometimes the hardest price to pay because once you start, it’s so easy to keep doing it.

By the time he is strapped to the cold lab table Bucky cannot even recognise himself.

-

War makes Bucky realise he would do anything for Steve. There are very few precious things in this endless wasteland and for Bucky, Steve is one of them.

Scarily he would even kill for Steve. On more than one occasion he does so, as part of the great Howling Commandos, and the army says it’s justifiable, another step towards success.

Bucky would do anything for Steve, even killing himself.

He approaches each mission with a steely reserve, gun at his hip, blue coat buttoned high on his neck. He plays the part of Captain Americas sidekick well - should be able to seeing as he’s been doing it since the day they first met – so when they’re on the train Bucky slips easily into his role of protecting Steve, a role that is as comfortable as his leather boots.

Bucky figures he was born to protect that little boy from Brooklyn and so it’s fitting that he dies doing so as well.

The truth is Bucky could have reached Steve’s hand. He could have stretched further and reached out to where his best friend was looking at him with horrified eyes. He could have, if he wanted to.

The truth is, Bucky doesn’t see a life for himself after the war is over (if it ever ends that is).

Once the war ends, life cannot go back to the way it once was and Bucky knows this and at the end, as he clings to the metal railing, it is his choice to let go.

(To follow Steve through the battlefield, to befriend that tiny boy on the playground, it was his choice).

So maybe the events that followed were his choice as well. 

At first he thinks he is dead. A fall like that would surely have killed him. He is cold and when he opens his eyes his vision is blurred and all around him is white; bleak, endless white all around him.

But then he hears voices, a harsh accent and hands grip his shoulders, dragging him carelessly along the ground.

It is then he knows for sure he is in hell.

They take his arm and his name and keep him in a dark, dank cell for days, weeks until time becomes almost inconsequential as he is _poked_ and _prodded_ and injected with fire until he is no longer a man.

He becomes the Asset.

And that is all he is, until he is standing on a bridge, with a man with eyes so familiar and blue and he is given a name: _Bucky_.

(And it hurts so much worse when that is taken away for the second time because _he knew him._ )

His name is _James Buchanan Barnes;_ those twenty letters  hold so much familiarity alongside an  _unfamiliar_ sense of belonging, that he spends hours sounding out the words, as he sits in a bathtub in a motel in some foreign state, wearing clothes smelling of  dirty water, holding a knife tight in his hand.

Those words give him a home and the asset is afraid.

(He is terrified.)

Because how could a destroyer of regimes have a home? How could a _killer_ belong anywhere?

(Answer: He can’t)


End file.
